witch that keeps finding bits of straw on herself
she brushes it off her sleeve and finds that her skin has split and there's nothing but straw inside.
just side effects of spending too much time Elsewhere. definitely not because she was built by a colony of feral dolls.
fuck, it keeps spilling out. what would a real witch— no. what would a witch do. can't think like that.
she tries to reach inward and twist her viscera into what they should be, but she's never much liked changing herself, and she's not good at it. the rip worsens.
she wishes that she'd never read that fucking book on feral dolls. she's a witch. she can wish that. things reshuffle for her.
there's no plant matter exfiltrating from her. she's fine. what was she even worried about?
the next day, someone sends her a list of 51 ridiculous doll facts that will make her laugh.
#21: did you know that a colony of feral dolls will try to build a crude witch out of straw?
well, she knows now. again.
the tear in her is back. it's getting worse.
she picks and pulls at it. it's maddening. she can't help herself. the rent disgorges dried plant stalks, the occasional twig. her left arm is visibly less there than her right, now. she wears long sleeves and works her phone one-handed.
she's always asked her friends to call her P, if they insist on a nickname, because she hates Peach and Peaches and Peachy. Peachtree is a weird family first name.
with a clot of straw comes a torn plastic label. Peachtree Farms. a truncated phone number, an area code upstate.
she holds the label with her good hand and chokes down on a sob of frustration.
she's going to have to go check it out. she's better with time than space, but it's only four hours by car. with her hand like this, she'll get one of her dolls to drive— but is that the smartest idea, really? her dolls. dolls she made. they can serve well enough, sure… but they suddenly look strange to her, though she's had them for years.
fake dolls made by a fake witch stuffed with straw. she can't trust them. not when it matters.
she'll drive herself. one-handed, if she must. she bites her lip and considers the practicalities. she couldn't fix herself as a real witch should. she's outside the category now, she thinks. so what's a straw witch to do?
she tapes her arm up with plastic packing tape, sticking to itself more than her skin. she puts a carpal tunnel brace over the top, tugs her sweater sleeve down her wrist to cover as much as she can. crude feral cunning, obviously. she snorts at the thought. but it holds.
it takes her seven hours to drive what should have been four. her right arm aches by the time she pulls up, alone, on the edge of what looks to be an abandoned orchard, swamped by rustling grasses.
she doesn't remember this place. she doesn't know what form feral dolls would take here. she pokes around for a few minutes, and finding nothing, she sits at the base of a tree and puts her hands, withered left and seemingly normal right, to her face.
that is how the little constructs of wood and dust find her. she hears the tiny voices first.
"miss is back!"
"back again!"
"she's lost her stuffing!"
one jumps in her lap. it's the weight of a cat, no more. it smiles up at her and chirps, "don't worry, miss! it's been a good year for straw!"
tiny hands pull at her sleeve. velcro rips, then tape. the colony dolls begin to fill her up again, just as they did when she was made.
the straw witch returns to the city a week later, feeling better than she has in years. the passenger seat next to her holds a small construct of wood and dust. in case she forgets again.
she isn't sure how it'll do in the city, but then, a straw witch did well enough.
